Cartel Clash

  The second armed Jeep swept into view

  The man behind the machine gun hadn’t known what to expect, but it most certainly wasn’t to have a friendly gun turned on him. Bolan raked the Jeep from front to back, bullets punching into the hood and windshield. The driver jerked back, his chest and head pulverized by the continuous blast of automatic fire.

  The Jeep swerved and ran on for yards before the engine stalled and it rattled to a stop. The Executioner hammered at it until the gas tank’s contents caught a spark and erupted in a boiling surge of flame.

  The surviving traffickers had begun to pull themselves together for a concerted rush at Bolan’s vehicle, but the Executioner swung the barrel of his weapon back on line and inflicted more damage. Under his relentless fire, the men went down hard, bodies bloodied and torn.

  Bolan’s finger released the trigger and the chatter of the machine gun ceased. All that remained was the moaning of the wounded. The dead held their peace.

  The Executioner knew the clock was ticking. Though the numbers were still falling, he knew without a shadow of doubt there would be others.

  How long he might hold them back was anyone’s guess.

  MACK BOLAN®

  The Executioner

  #309 Flames of Fury

  #310 Killing Heat

  #311 Night of the Knives

  #312 Death Gamble

  #313 Lockdown

  #314 Lethal Payload

  #315 Agent of Peril

  #316 Poison Justice

  #317 Hour of Judgment

  #318 Code of Resistance

  #319 Entry Point

  #320 Exit Code

  #321 Suicide Highway

  #322 Time Bomb

  #323 Soft Target

  #324 Terminal Zone

  #325 Edge of Hell

  #326 Blood Tide

  #327 Serpent’s Lair

  #328 Triangle of Terror

  #329 Hostile Crossing

  #330 Dual Action

  #331 Assault Force

  #332 Slaughter House

  #333 Aftershock

  #334 Jungle Justice

  #335 Blood Vector

  #336 Homeland Terror

  #337 Tropic Blast

  #338 Nuclear Reaction

  #339 Deadly Contact

  #340 Splinter Cell

  #341 Rebel Force

  #342 Double Play

  #343 Border War

  #344 Primal Law

  #345 Orange Alert

  #346 Vigilante Run

  #347 Dragon’s Den

  #348 Carnage Code

  #349 Firestorm

  #350 Volatile Agent

  #351 Hell Night

  #352 Killing Trade

  #353 Black Death Reprise

  #354 Ambush Force

  #355 Outback Assault

  #356 Defense Breach

  #357 Extreme Justice

  #358 Blood Toll

  #359 Desperate Passage

  #360 Mission to Burma

  #361 Final Resort

  #362 Patriot Acts

  #363 Face of Terror

  #364 Hostile Odds

  #365 Collision Course

  #366 Pele’s Fire

  #367 Loose Cannon

  #368 Crisis Nation

  #369 Dangerous Tides

  #370 Dark Alliance

  #371 Fire Zone

  #372 Lethal Compound

  #373 Code of Honor

  #374 System Corruption

  #375 Salvador Strike

  #376 Frontier Fury

  #377 Desperate Cargo

  #378 Death Run

  #379 Deep Recon

  #380 Silent Threat

  #381 Killing Ground

  #382 Threat Factor

  #383 Raw Fury

  #384 Cartel Clash

  Don Pendleton's

  The Executioner®

  CARTEL CLASH

  May God have mercy upon my enemies, because I sure as hell won’t.

  —George S. Patton

  1885–1945

  No matter how long and bloody the conflict, the drug war has to be faced head-on. Those engaged in the trafficking of narcotics have no scruples. No conscience. Their victims do not concern these people. All they see are the dollars their foul product earns. If we are to engage, our resolve has to be unshakable and our tactics as ruthless as theirs.

  —Mack Bolan

  * * *

  THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

  Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

  But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

  Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

  He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

  So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

  But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

  Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

  * * *

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Border Country, Texas

  “It never ceases to amaze me,” Preacher said, “how ingenious folk can be when it comes to making things that do harm.”

  He was fingering a strand of the razor wire that stretched across the tract of land where Texas met Mexico. It ran in an unbroken line east to west, a man-made barrier cutting across the invisible border.

  Choirboy, his partner, nodded in agreement, shifting his gaze to the barely moving figure spread-eagled across the wire. The man’s earlier struggles had slowed imperceptibly until he was almost motionless. His initial twisting and turning had caused countless cuts and gashes in his naked flesh, and he was torn and bloody.

  “No question it ain’t doin’ him any favors,” he said.

  Preacher shaded his eyes as he glanced skyward. The sun was directly overhead. Hot and bright. The man on the wire was unpr
otected and unable to save himself from what was to come. Preacher didn’t figure on more than a couple of hours.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. “Something cool in a long glass is my choice.”

  They turned and walked to the 4x4 parked close by. Choirboy drove, turning the vehicle in the direction of the dirt road roughly two miles away. From there a twenty-minute ride would bring them to the main highway.

  Preacher took out his cell phone and hit speed dial. He listened as the number rang out. When it was answered, he recognized the voice immediately.

  “She’s done,” Preacher said.

  “Fine. The rest of your fee will be transferred by morning.”

  “Hell, I wasn’t calling about that. Just to let you know the problem has been resolved.”

  “Okay.”

  The call over, Preacher put away his phone and turned on the radio. The station was local, playing some country and western.

  “Now that is nice,” Choirboy said.

  “It is so, too,” Preacher said. “Push that pedal down, son, I’m getting real thirsty.”

  THE MAN LEFT BEHIND on the razor wire took another hour to die. The savage beating he had received before being thrown on the barrier had weakened him already. He had two broken arms, broken ribs and a bad fracture in his left leg. The deep wounds inflicted by the steel razor barbs had accelerated his loss of blood, and the dehydrating and burning effect of the overhead sun hastened his death.

  It was another full day before the body was discovered by a border patrol team. Hardened though they might have been by the things they had witnessed, the two-man team was shocked at the brutality of the violence that had led to the man’s death. A department chopper was called in, and after the body had been recovered it was flown to the closest medical center where an autopsy was carried out and the task of identifying the dead man was initiated.

  It took only a couple of hours for fingerprint and dental ID to confirm who the man was: Don Manners, a six-year veteran of the DEA. During the six months preceding his murder, Manners had been operating undercover, working his way into the drug cartel headed by Benito Rojas and his American partner, Marshal Dembrow. Three days earlier Manners had managed to communicate with his superiors about an incoming arms shipment to the Rojas Cartel. Although he had not managed to pass on the finer details, Manners had reported that, along with conventional weapons, Rojas had negotiated the purchase of a couple of mobile, high-end missile units. There was nothing in Manners’s report that told when and where the consignment was due, but he spoke of a Russian supplier.

  The DEA, despite this intel, was still helpless. If the ordnance was coming into Mexico, it was out of their jurisdiction, and they could do nothing except stand by and imagine Rojas taking great pleasure in his latest move against the U.S. authorities.

  The report, in full, found its way to Washington, and eventually to the desk of the American President because he had asked to be kept in the loop with anything to do with the drug trade. It held great interest for the President. It was a cause, among many others, that stirred his emotions. Since coming into office, he had made the eradication of the drug tide a priority. Despite his efforts and the responses of the DEA, little headway had been made. The President was far from happy. His hands, though, were tied. The particular items that fueled his mood this time were the savage slaughter of Don Manners and the revelation that Rojas was importing missiles—missiles he’d undoubtedly use in his declared war against the Americans who had destroyed a great deal of his merchandise. Rojas’s response had been to increase the amount of drugs he shipped over the border, while also escalating his unremitting violence against anyone who defied him.

  The President had read and reread the report, sitting alone in the Oval Office, his frustration over the situation growing with each passing minute. He hated the thought of more drugs coming into the country, the misery it would cause, and the cruel indifference of men like Rojas and Dembrow. They were defying the might of the U.S., killing at will, and ignoring every law and rule in the book. All the while becoming richer day by day.

  It had to stop.

  The President reached for the phone on his desk that would connect him with the one man who might be able to assist in resolving the situation.

  The phone rang out and was quickly picked up.

  “Mr. President.”

  “We need to talk, Hal. ASAP. There’s something I need your help with.”

  1

  Mack Bolan spotted the young woman as she came down the wooden stairs tacked on to the side of the cantina. The stairs led to the two-roomed apartment Don Manners had been using during his time in Texas. The location had come from the file Brognola had given Bolan when he’d accepted the assignment. The file had updated the Executioner on the local situation, and it made frustrating reading. Drug enforcement agencies, well versed in the illegal activities, were stifled because the Rojas Cartel and its Texas chapter, though they didn’t have right, they certainly had might on their side. It was an all too familiar story. The drug organizations were ultimately so powerful they defied any and all attempts at taking them down. The endless wealth they generated from their trade allowed them to buy legal help of the highest order. If any of their people were arrested, the ink was not even dry on the paperwork before lawyers were hammering on the police station doors. Witnesses were either bought off or wiped out. The indifference to law and order was staggering. The authorities understood the situation that forced them to stand off, watching in jurisdictional paralysis while the enemy went about its business with impunity. The busts they did manage to make stick were small victories and something the drug cartels could well afford.

  The Manners murder was a direct slap in the face of the DEA task force. An open statement from the drug world.

  We can do this because you can’t pin it on us. You have nothing on us. Send in your agents, and we will return them all in a similar way.

  The file Brognola had given Bolan during their briefing on the upcoming mission had contained images of Manners—where he had been found and what had been done to him.

  “Enough is enough,” Brognola had said. “The President has taken this on board because he’s had it with these sick bastards, Striker. The head of the most powerful nation on Earth and he’s helpless, because he can’t do a damn thing legally.”

  Bolan had smiled at the last word—legally—and he understood exactly what was coming next.

  “The President, me and you, Striker. We’re the only ones in the loop on this one. He’s asking for your help. The kind of help only you can provide. Nothing on the books. Nothing that connects this mission to him, or the U.S. administration. I’ll provide any logistical assistance you need through Stony Man. No questions asked as to how, or where, or when. He just wants Rojas and Dembrow gone. Their business wiped out. And this incoming special cargo, as well.”

  Brognola had waited as Bolan scanned the file. The Executioner was as committed to doing whatever possible to inflict damage on the purveyors of illegal drug trafficking as anyone, and the fact the President was asking for his covert assistance alerted him to the gravity of the situation.

  “Well?” Brognola asked after a decent interval.

  “I get triple brownie points?” Bolan asked archly.

  Brognola only hesitated for effect. “Hell of a request, but okay.”

  BOLAN IMMEDIATELY MADE his way to the small Texas town close to the border to make his first contact.

  The young woman, dark-haired, slim and pretty, from what Bolan could see, clutched a small cloth bundle, and her cautious manner told Bolan she should not have been in the apartment. His curiosity was aroused. The young woman was his first possible lead to Manners. At the moment he had no idea how important her relationship with the agent might have been, but he had to find out.

  His rented Ford 4x4 was parked across the street from the cantina. Bolan watched as his lead walked quickly by the frontage. As Bolan leaned forwar
d to fire up the engine, he saw two figures detach from the shadows of the alley beside the cantina and fall in behind the young woman. It looked as if others were interested in her, too.

  Beyond the cantina were a couple of closed and shuttered stores, then an empty lot covered with weeds and refuse. Bolan eased open the truck’s door and stepped out. He crossed the street and trailed the pair following the woman. The men remained at a discreet distance until she turned to cross the empty lot, then they upped their pace. Bolan did the same, his long legs covering the distance with ease. As he rounded the end of the last store, he saw the duo closing in on their mark, heard her startled gasp as one of them reached out to catch hold of one of her arms and jerk her to a stop. One of the men spoke, his Spanish so rapid that Bolan only caught a few words. Understandable or not, the menace in the guy’s tone was unmistakable. The woman replied, her words defiant.

  “Puta,” the man yelled, and slapped her across the face. The blow knocked the woman off her feet. “Puta madre.”

  The second man leaned down to snatch at the bundle from her arms. She yelled at him, clinging to the package. The guy kicked at her side.

  That was when Bolan reached the group. He went for the guy who had kicked the young woman, grabbed a handful of his thick black hair and yanked hard. The man yelled, trying to turn. Bolan slammed a hard fist into the goon’s exposed ribs. He put all of his strength into the blow and heard the faint crack of bone. The man groaned. The Executioner drove the toe of his boot into the back of one knee. The leg buckled, the man losing balance, and as his opponent fell backward the soldier snapped an arm around his lean neck and dragged him close. He stamped down on the man’s calf, breaking the limb. The man screamed as Bolan let go and swiveled to face the first guy, who had produced a knife from his belt. He lunged wildly at his adversary, and from the way he moved it was obvious he was no expert.